A Son's Loyalty
by Redclia
Summary: NOW FINISHED! Moviefic (mostly). Théoden’s son Théodred was killed at the Fords of Isen. What if Wormtongue had a hand in his demise?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated professionally with J.R.R. Tolkein, Peter Jackson, New Line Cinema, etc.

Author's Note: This is a moviefic, with the characters based on the actors and the events based on the movie's versions of what happened.  Because of this, Théodred is a young man, instead of the forty-year-old he is in the book.

Gríma Wormtongue peered around the doorway to the dining hall of Edoras and smiled.  There was only one other person in the room and he was person that Gríma had been searching for.  He sat with his head lowered, so deep in thought that he did not notice Gríma until he sat on the bench across the table from him.  

            "Good evening," Théoden's advisor said calmly.

            The young man across the table looked up sharply, his dark eyes alert and distrustful.  He wore a deep green tunic with a gold horse embroidered on the chest.  Gríma could see the long knife in a sheath at the young man's belt and knew he would have to pick his words carefully.

            "Gríma," the young man replied.  He straightened, brushing his dark hair behind his shoulders. "What do you want?"

            "I just wondered," Gríma shrugged innocently. "How fares the war against the Dark?"

            The distrust in the other's eyes increased. "We will not fall."

            "Is that all you can say?  I was hoping for a more encouraging answer than that."

            "The Riders of Rohan are ever a strong force, Gríma, as much as you may wish otherwise.  You will be gone before we fall to Sauron or Saruman," came proud reply.

            "You wound me," Gríma said, letting hurt tinge his voice. "I do not wish to see Rohan fall."

             "But you would have us turn a deaf ear to the counsel of the Wise?" the young man asked.

            "Not Saruman," Gríma insisted. "The White Wizard has always been our ally."

            "But the advice of Gandalf the Grey should be cast away?"

            Gríma nodded emphatically. "Yes, he should not be trusted.  He dwells more with Elves than Men, it is said, and those people cannot be trusted."

            The young man stood up angrily, one hand unconsciously straying to the hilt of his blade.  Gríma cringed backward, nearly falling off the bench he huddled on. "And the Prince of Dol Armoth?  What do you say to him, he who has Elvish blood in his veins, he who is our ally?"

            "He is different," Gríma replied carefully, cursing himself for letting the man trap him in such a way. "There is a difference between those who are Elves and those who cavort with them."

            "So those who are Elves are trustworthy, and those who merely know them are not?  Gríma, your tongue has tied itself in knots in your haste to sway my mind to believe you."__

"But why do you not heed my words like your father does?" whined Gríma. "Surely if King Théoden listens to me, then my words cannot be evil."

            "You have corrupted his mind," the prince Théodred replied forcefully. "Éomer and I see this clearly enough."

            Wormtongue's eyes flashed. "Éomer!" he sneered. "Why are the words of the _king's counselor_ trusted less than the words of a hissing young snake?"

            "Éomer will be a snake only when we call our enemies eagles and horses," Théodred replied. "You are far more a serpent than he."

            Gríma nearly hissed in reply, but realized that this would only work to prove Théodred's words. "Éomer may be valorous yes, but he defies the orders of your father.  He hunts the Orcs that cross through Rohan, meaning no harm to its people.  Théoden does not need an errant nephew on his hands as well as a war."

            There was the sharp sound of steel grating as Théodred drew his knife.  He was standing over Gríma then, the point of his blade hovering but a few inches from Gríma's throat, anger lighting in his eyes.

            "Your spell will not last forever, Gríma," Théodred said, "and before this war is over, you will be dead."

            With that, the Prince of the Mark spun and quickly left, and when Wormtongue could no longer hear the footfalls of Théodred, he sat up, pulling his black robe closer around his body. "But you have a weakness, Théodred.  I know your family's history.  I know what happened to your mother and I know what loyalty you feel for your father.  That loyalty and love will be your undoing, Prince Théodred of the Mark."

Author's Note: This is _not_ the end of the story!!


	2. Chapter 2

To "Fool of A Took" if you decide to read this: Read the summary again…you'll find that it hasn't changed since when I first posted it and that, no, it does not say that Théoden is the son of Théodred, it says that Théodred is the son of Théoden which is true. And Théoden's father is Thengel.

Author's Note: Probably only one or maybe two more chapters.

Two days passed before Théodred and Éomer were summoned to stand before the King Théoden.  Gríma was, as always, close to the king's side, pale eyes glaring balefully at the two soldiers before the throne.  Behind Théodred and Éomer, half-hidden by one of the pillars that supported the high ceiling of the room, Éomer's sister Éowyn stood, listening to all that was said.

            "Théoden King wishes for you to ride out to the Fords of Isen to repel whatever force may attack from there," Gríma announced, his thin lips curving into a false smile.

            "But you yourself said that Saruman was our ally, Gríma," Théodred replied.

            "Fool!  Not only Saruman can attack from the river Isen," Gríma snapped. "It is a river.  Others can freely use its waters for ships."

            Théodred started to object again and Éomer had stepped forward in protest when the aged king's voice stopped them. "Go to the Fords, my son and sister-son.  Halt whatever attack may come from there."

            "Father," Théodred began. "Gríma does not advise you truly."

            "Go!" Théoden shouted. "He speaks truer than you know."

            Respectfully, Théodred bowed before the king before standing and walking angrily from the room, followed swiftly by Éomer and Éowyn. 

            "You cannot go," Éowyn urged.  She had been raised with her brother and cousin to fight as one of them and even now wore a vest of mail over her plain white dress.

            "I know," Théodred replied. "And yet, I will not yet defy an order of my father's."

            "But Théodred," Éomer protested. "Gríma seeks to send us to our deaths.  You must see this."

            "I do," the Prince replied, even as he made his way to his own room. "But I owe my father much."

            "As do I, but I will not throw my life away in a petty battle.  I would rather fall defending the city of Edoras," Éomer said. "Théodred, you cannot go."

            Théodred halted.  Conflicting emotions flashed in his eyes, for though he knew that what Éomer said was true, he felt a fierce loyalty to his father, a loyalty not easily discarded. "He has been the only parent I have had," he tried. "My mother did not survive long after my birth and he alone raised me.  Even you two had the blessing of two parents for a while."

            "Yes," Éowyn returned. "And we also had the curse of losing them.  Théodred, your father is not himself.  When his mind is freed, he will know and understand why you did not go to the Fords."

            "And who will free him?" Théodred asked, his voice rising. "The wizardry of Saruman is powerful."

            "There is still Gandalf," Éomer replied quietly.

            Théodred sighed. "I must go, Éomer."

            As he started once again to move, Éowyn cut in front of him, her blue eyes alight with anger and frustration. "Is not the life of a Prince worth more than the misguided command of a corrupted King?  He will forgive you if you do not go, Théodred, but if you should fall in this battle, he will never forgive himself."

            "Éowyn," Théodred said slowly, "He will still have you and Éomer, two to continue the line of the Lords of Rohan."

            "But we are not of his bloodline," Éowyn protested desperately.

            Théodred smiled thinly, gently pushing past her. "You are close to him.  Sister-son, and sister-daughter he calls you.  His sister was always his closest and most beloved kin."

            "If your mind is set," Éomer started.

            "It is," came the final reply.

            "Then I will ride with you, my Prince."

            "Éomer!" Éowyn cried, but she relented when she saw the determination in her brother's face. "Do not let him fall."

            "If I fall, Éowyn, it will be no one's fault but my own," Théodred replied for Éomer. "Your brother should not bear the burden of two lives.  Now, if we are to ride to battle," he turned to Éomer, "We will need to be armed and attired properly.  Tell the Riders that tomorrow morning, we will ride to the Fords!"


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning was blessed with a fair sky, save for a band of red that swept across the horizon.  The wind whipped strongly around Edoras as it always did, bringing no sounds save for those of the birds.  In wartimes though, such peace was deceptive.  When the Riders were gathering at the gates, Théoden was already in his throne and Gríma was already kneeling by his side, whispering to him.  When Théodred entered the room, Wormtongue looked up, a smile crossing his face.  The young Rider was dressed for battle, with armor glinting on his chest, forearms and legs.  He held his helm in one hand and his sword was sheathed at his waist.  A dark blue cape was draped over his shoulders. 

            "Good morning, Théodred," he said, a false warmth in his voice. "The day dawns bright and fair.  Perhaps it is a sign that you will be victorious today."

            "Gríma," Théodred replied distastefully. "Since you arrived in Rohan, no dawn has ever been _bright_ or _fair_.  And until you leave, every dawn will be a sign of foreboding and treachery."

            Gríma made as if to swoon in indignation. "Again you have wounded me, Théodred."

            "Gríma, I have not wounded you yet.  But should you come within range of my sword, you will find it in your gut," Théodred warned.  Gríma glanced quickly to either side and Théodred could hear muted mutters as the guards Gríma had enchanted moved closer to him.  He knew that with a single word from Gríma, they would kill him and only later would they realize what they had done.

            "Go, Théodred," Gríma snarled. "The Fords await."

            Théodred's eyes flashed angrily, but he made no move towards Théoden's ill-chosen advisor.  Just then, the loud clear ringing of a horn sounded, calling the Riders.  Théodred left without a sound, but Gríma still cringed half-behind the throne, worried about Théodred's return, and hoping that the young man would _not_ return.

            Outside, Théodred felt no better, even when he saw the assembled Riders waiting, banners held high and snapping in the wind.  They were ready for whatever foe Isengard threw at them and none were fooled by Gríma's argument that it would not be Saruman attacking them.

            "Théodred," Éomer came up, already mounted on his stallion Firefoot.  He held the reins of Théodred's horse, a regal bay stallion called Brego.  The horse nickered when he saw Théodred, for the Riders all had a strong bond with their horses.  Théodred swung up onto Brego's back, moving with Éomer to the front of the group.  He looked back once, up at the hall of Théoden and saw a flash of black cloth as Gríma hurriedly hid himself from sight.

            "Riders!" Théodred shouted as the gates swung open.  There was a thunder of hooves as they swept out of Edoras, beginning the three-day ride to the Fords of Isen.  All day they rode, their horses easily keeping a steady pace as they ran westward.  That night, they rested lightly, always watching for any sign of the Uruk-Hai of Saruman.  Early the next morning, they rose and rode again, mostly in silence, though sometimes the Riders would sing a song of Rohan, in the slow, beautiful language of their own people.  The following two days and one night went in the same manner, and by then, they had nearly reached the Fords.  During that final night, the Riders were sterner than usual.  There were no songs or stories told by the fire.  Groups of the Riders guarded the camp, watching both their fellow Men as well as their horses.  Éomer found Théodred in the shadows at the edge of their small encampment, wrapped in his dark cloak, his knees drawn up to the chest and his head bowed.  His helmet and sheathed sword lay near his side.

            "Théodred," Éomer said softly.  The Second Marshal of the Mark looked up slowly.

            "Éomer," Théodred replied, "There will be a battle tomorrow."

            Éomer nodded. "There may be."

            Théodred grabbed Éomer's shoulder forcefully. "No, cousin, there _will_ be a battle.  And many of us will fall."

            Éomer tried to laugh. "You now have the foresight of an Elf?"

            Théodred's glance hardened reproachfully, and Éomer wished he hadn't tried to joke. "You have been away defending Rohan from Saruman, Éomer, so you have not seen how Gríma has wore down my father.  My father is weak now, dependent on Gríma's evil whisperings.  It is the only way he knows to rule his country.  I have seen enough of Gríma's treachery to know that he will have found a way to tell Saruman that we are coming, or else he already knew that Saruman would send troops to the Fords."

            Éomer sighed. "Then we ride to death, perhaps."

            "Perhaps," came the reply. "But even if we should win this battle, there will be little glory found."

            "Glory can wait when lives must be kept."

            Théodred smiled faintly. "You have a noble heart, Éomer.  You would be a better King that I, and will be if I fall."

            "I promised Éowyn I would not let that happened," Éomer reminded him. "You will be King, as it should be."

            "Tomorrow afternoon, though, we will see things as they _are," Théodred replied darkly.  Éomer left him alone then, seeing that the young Prince wanted to be by himself, left in the growing shadows with his own thoughts of battle and deception._


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, the Riders were on the move again, riding slower than before, keeping their horses at a comfortable pace so none of the fieriness of the horses would be lost.  It was just after noon when they reached the Fords of Isen.  They stopped at the water's edge, watching the sparkling river move down towards Isengard where its blithe path would be halted by Saruman's dam.  

            "Scout around for Saruman's soldiers!" Théodred shouted and the Riders broke into smaller groups to do so.  The rocky terrain provided the ideal cover for any troops who may have planned an ambush and it was not long before the Orcs revealed themselves.

            As Théodred, Éomer and a few of the other Riders passed by one rocky overhang, Brego suddenly started, his ears folding backwards in fright as he shied away from the overhang.  He half-reared and then there was a harsh screech from above.

            A Warg snarled as it leaped from the overhang, dropping between Théodred and the others.  At the sight of its already-empty saddle, Théodred glanced upwards instinctively.  The Orc that had ridden the beast dropped from the rocks onto the back of Brego, behind Théodred.  Before the creature could strike down with its blade, Brego swerved sharply, disturbing the Orc's precarious balance and sending him falling.  Quickly turning the stallion, Théodred drew his own sword and killed the Orc before it could rise.

            The Warg roared loudly and charged at another of the Riders, but a long spear impaled it before it reached the man or his horse.  The element of surprise lost, the rest of the Orc-Warg troops attacked, streaming out from behind the small hills and rock formations that surrounded the Fords.  

            Shouts and screeches of both anger and pain filled the air as the Rohirrim and Orcs clashed.  Horses reared and fell, the fear in their eyes urging them to run but the pride in their hearts forcing them to stay.  Their riders were similar; there was no man there who was fearless, but there was no man who allowed his fears to drive his actions.  They were well trained and already battle-hardened from other skirmishes with Saruman's forces.  

            Théodred backed Brego out of the center of the fray, hoping for a quick moment in which he could count the number of the enemy as well as the number of casualties.  The stallion was eager to return to the battle and tossed his head and hooves impatiently as Théodred's eyes scanned the battlefield.  The Rohirrim and Orcs were nearly equal in numbers and the expertise of the Riders was matched by the primal ferocity of the Wargs.  As he spurred Brego forward, a Warg leaped from a rock formation, slamming into the Prince and knocking him off the stallion.  Brego neighed loudly, angrily, and reared, slamming him hooves down on the Warg's snout as the beast crouched to rip Théodred's throat out.  There was a sharp yelp of pain from the Warg and it backed away, its nose bleeding from the horse's attack.  Getting to his feet, Théodred looked around for the sword that had fallen from his grasp when he was knocked from his horse.

            He had just closed a fist around its hilt when a panicked whinny from Brego caught his attention and he turned his head to see three Wargs between him and the stallion, snarling at the horse, forcing him back towards the battle.  But before Théodred could attack the Wargs, one turned and leaped towards him, ducking under the sword blade and knocking Théodred to the ground.

            The Orc-riders of the three Wargs appeared then, hovering over him, one of them with a claw on the Warg's halter, restraining the beast, pulling it off the Prince.  As soon as the Warg was gone, a sword was hovering at Théodred's throat.

            "Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark," the sword-bearer said in twisted Common Tongue. "You would be a fine prisoner for Saruman."

            "You know my name?" Théodred asked in surprise.

            The Orc cackled. "The spies of Saruman are many."

            "Gríma," Théodred spat in reply.

            The Orc smiled hideously and lifted the sword blade a little, inadvertently giving Théodred enough space to raise his sword to push the Orc's weapon to the side.  He quickly plunged forward with his sword, pushing the weapon through the Orc's chest.  The other two Orcs were quick to respond though, and one let go of the Warg's halter while the other one gamely battled the Prince, whose sword blade caught him in the throat.  With a snarl the Warg charged at Théodred who had half-turned away from the dead Orc and was caught off-guard by the savagery of the creature.  Its sharp teeth ripped through the armor on Théodred's torso, and Théodred believed he could feel the blood as it leaked from the deep wounds.

            It was a burning, nearly unbearable pain that he had never felt before and he faltered even as the Warg renewed its attack.  Théodred let the Warg come and fell back as it leaped, and, with a sweeping move of his arm, plunged his sword into its back with such strength that he could see the sword's point glinting from its stomach.  The Warg died, still growling, but Théodred couldn't free his sword in time to stop the other Orc's attack.  It struck him above his eye with its sword and Théodred dropped to his hands and knees, barely catching himself.  As the Orc swung back his sword to deliver the killing blow, a fierce bugling neigh announced the arrival of Brego's pounding hooves as the stallion ran over the Orc.  

            "Brego," Théodred smiled weakly as blood ran from his head wound to cloud his vision. "You are as great a warrior as any man."  The horse nickered softly, nudging concernedly at Théodred's shoulder and the young Prince slowly raised a hand to pat Brego's nose.    

            "Théodred!" shouted a Rider's voice, sounding distant in the Prince's ears.  He was weakening; he could feel the life draining from his body like a trickling stream, small, but quick moving, always flowing and this time, he knew it to be unstoppable.

            "Théodred," came the voice again, and Théodred barely recognized it to be Éomer's.  The Third Marshal of the Mark was kneeling at his side, trying to raise him to his feet.

            "Are…?" Théodred managed to gasp out weakly as the world started to spin away from him.

            "The Orcs are defeated, Théodred," Éomer assured him. "We must get you back to Edoras.  Brego," he turned to the rider-less stallion.  The horse sat down next to Théodred and Éomer was able to drag the half-conscious Prince into the saddle.  He mounted behind him, sending his own horse to another Rider whose steed had been killed.

            "Rohirrim!" Éomer shouted. "A third of us will return to Edoras with the wounded.  The rest will burn the bodies of the Orcs and bury the bodies of our comrades and their horses."  Silently, the Rohirrim sorted themselves out and soon, Éomer clicked his tongue to Brego and the stallion led the way on the long journey to Edoras.

AN: Not the end!  Close to it, though.  I know it says that Théodred was ambushed at the Fords, but I didn't think that he would be foolish enough to go off by himself, so that ruled out the wandering-attacked-by-Orcs scenario.  This wasn't quite what I had in mind either, but oh well.


	5. Chapter 5

When the Riders reached Edoras, there was no fanfare to announce their arrival.  The people of Rohan watched from their homes and it was clear to them that something had happened, something had put wild urgency into the eyes of the Men and the step of the horses.  Théodred swayed limply on Brego's back, held upright only by Éomer, who took the stallion directly up the steps to Meduseld.  The door guards withdrew as he approached and held open the heavy door as Éomer carried Théodred to his room.  There, Théodred was stripped of his armor and laid on his bed. 

            Éomer found his sister among the Riders, speaking to them about the battle, glancing over the injuries of the wounded.  He touched her shoulder softly and did not have to say a word; the expression on his face told her enough and she followed him silently.  He stood at Théodred's bedside and she paused briefly at the doorway before moving quickly to the bed.

            "Théodred," she breathed softly.  Théodred could barely hear her, so lost was he in darkness.  He tried to speak, to ease her worry, but found he could not.  Éomer exchanged a worried look with Éowyn and she pulled back the Prince's torn shirt to see the damage done by the Warg's cruel claws and teeth.

            "Éomer," she said softly, once they were in the hall, "I do not know if he will survive these wounds."

            Éomer's eyes were grim as he glanced back into the room where Théodred lay. "He is strong, Éowyn, and young yet."

            "But I do not think that there is enough strength left in him," Éowyn replied, "He may not live past the night."

            Indeed, Théodred did not wake until night had fallen, and he found it nearly as dark as his dreams, though the soft light of candles held the darkest shadows at bay. Éowyn was kneeling by his bed, her head lowered in sleep.  Théodred whispered her name softly, and she raised her head, the initial confusion in her eyes replaced by relief.

            A smile crossed her face. "Théodred, you are awake!"

            "Well, I do not talk when I am asleep," he replied, trying to lighten the mood, all the while feeling the darkness creeping back, starting to slowly flood his body.

            "I – we did not know if you would live."

            He smiled sadly, weakly it seemed to her. "I do not know if I will.  Shadows have found me, Éowyn, pierced me in the guise of a Warg's claws and they spread, burning through me."

            "Don't talk like that," she cried. "You speak as if you have already given up hope."

            "Hope for my health, aye, I have given up," he said, "But hope remains for Rohan.  Éomer will become king after my father, and our people will stay strong."

            Sad, slow tears were clouding her eyes and streaking her cheeks. "Théodred…"

            "Éowyn, return to your own rooms," he told her gently. "Death is not something you should see."

            "I can withstand the sight of death!" she replied proudly, affronted despite herself.

            "Shieldmaiden, this is no glorious death on the battlefield!  There is no chaos to keep your attention from the blood and screams.  This will be a quiet, slow death, painful to the last moment.  Please, Éowyn, go."  The silent pleading in his eyes halted her objection and she nodded before quietly rising and going to the doorway.

            "May the end come easily, Théodred," she whispered, and then she was gone.  

AN: I'm predicting two more chapters.  In fact, the next one is already written.


	6. Chapter 6

Théodred lay in the growing dark then, listening to his breaths, feeling the fiery hurt building in his abdomen and the throbbing pain pulsing from his forehead.  But a few moments had passed when he saw Gríma come out of the hall, pale face white in the darkness.

            "Prince of the Mark, you have returned to the land of the living," he greeted Théodred.

            Théodred's pride pushed his pain to back of his mind. "Gríma.  The Orcs send you a greeting from Saruman," he mocked.

            "You threatened me before you left, Théodred," Gríma said, "and now it is my turn."  Théodred saw the glint of steel as Gríma drew a thin dagger from beneath his cloak.  Gríma smiled thinly, hovering over Théodred, the weapon poised over the Prince's throat.

            "You will die tonight."

            Théodred glared up at the King's advisor. "I know.  But it will not be by your hand."

            Gríma seemed taken aback by the strength flaring in Théodred's voice and he lowered the dagger.  The Prince was less weakened than he had first believed.  A spark of doubt lit in Gríma's mind, asking, What if Théodred did survive the night?  He had sent the Prince on the journey to the Fords to kill him, not to have him return with wounds that would merely fade into scars and a story of bravery and luck.

            "No," Gríma replied. "You were wounded by servants of Saruman."

            Théodred glared at the man. "You are one such servant."

            Gríma smiled again. "Exactly."

            In one quick movement, Gríma pulled back the sheet covering Théodred's abdomen and slid the dagger neatly into the Prince's stomach, the new wound hidden by the ones delivered by the Warg.  Théodred gasped sharply at the pain, throwing his head back as it lanced through him.  Gríma pulled the dagger back, wiping it on the hem of his cloak, the dark red of Théodred's blood blending into the black of the fabric.

            "Treacherous worm!" Théodred snapped, pain flashing into anger. "You will betray even Saruman if it serves your best interests."

            Gríma flinched. "I would never betray my leader."

            "You betrayed my father quickly enough."  Théodred was weakening through blood loss and the older wounds and his voice was faltering as pain seeped into his heart.  Gríma heard and knew the change and smiled.

            "Death is coming, Théodred," he gloated.

            A clear, forceful voice broke through whatever he was about to add. "Gríma!  Go back to the cave you slithered from and torment Théodred no more!"

            Gríma whirled around in shock to see Éowyn standing in the doorway, Théodred's sword glittering in her hand. "Leave us!" she snapped, seeming to shine as cold and fair as the golden moon that hung in the sky.  Gríma snarled at her, cast one last baleful glance at Théodred and slunk past Éowyn, disappearing down the hall.

            "He will not return tonight."

            "I told _you to go to bed, Éowyn," he replied._

            Icy blue fire blazed in her eyes. "I am no longer a child, Théodred.  I need not the rules placed on one.  Besides, I do not wish for you to rest alone in the dark."

            A faint smile graced his lips. "Thank you."

            She knelt at his side, clasping his cooling hand with her own vibrantly warm one, letting his sword drop to the floor.  She was crying again, he noticed vaguely, and each tear was like a tiny jewel sparkling in the night, streaking her cheeks with brilliance.  But such sad brilliance!  Pain and beauty so often walked hand in hand.

            Éowyn watched the light fade from her cousin's skin, the glow of life withdrawing to fight the shadows that clenched their deathly claw around his heart.  His hand's strength weakened and she gripped it tighter, hoping to hold on to him for a few more minutes.  He turned his face towards her and he saw the glimmer of his eyes from under half-lowered eyelids.  Slowly, his eyelids dropped, long lashes like curtains hiding some precious treasure from mortal eyes.  His breath faded until one last gentle push of air form his lungs came out as a sigh, finally devoid of the pain he had lived with for the last days of his short life.

            "So falls Théodred, son of Théoden, and the Prince of the Mark," Éowyn whispered softly, brokenly, feeling the cold hand relax limply against her own.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Last chapter!  Woo!  Okay, this is where it got a bit confusing for me.  Because this is more of a movie-based fic, Théodred is younger.  However, I followed the book in that Éomer is _not_ banished by Gríma, he is imprisoned….so it's partially a book-based fic.

The following day brought visitors – the wizard Gandalf and three companions, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Mirkwood Elf Legolas and Gimli, a dwarf from the Lonely Mountain.  With them came hope for Rohan, for the wizard stood before Théoden and banished the darkness from him.  Gríma had been banished and Éomer freed from imprisonment.  It was only later that Théoden realized that his son was not with them, and Éowyn told him once again that Théodred had died.

            It was mid-afternoon when she found herself standing on the grassy fields of Edoras, among the mounds of the fallen Kings, clad in a black dress and a veil that draped over her shoulders.  Éomer stood next to her, in polished armor, one bare hand clasped comfortingly with his sister's.  She was silent in her grief, unlike many of the women who were crowded behind them weeping.

            "Another field of _simbelynë_ will rise then, another snowy garden that will forever bloom," Éowyn sighed quietly, more to herself than Éomer.

            Éomer could make no reply to that, for he knew it to be the truth.  Always had the Evermind, the white flower also called _simbelynë _blossomed on the graves of the fallen Kings of Rohan.  And he knew there was nothing that _could_ be said, in comfort, agreement or sympathy.  

            The previous silence had been broken only by the slow step of Rohan's Riders bearing the coffin of Théodred to the tomb that was to be his body's resting place.   The Prince was arrayed in his cleaned armor and an intricately woven silver crown glittered against the cold paleness of his forehead. His face was peaceful in death, as if he were sleeping, but those nearest him could almost see the white figure of Death flitting around his still form.     

A lone trumpet had heralded the arrival of Théoden and the town wept to see the king in such grief.  He wore a rich burgundy tunic and a green shirt underneath with gold thread tracing its way along its sleeves.  On any other day, for any other occasion, the gold would have gleamed proudly, but this afternoon it seemed dulled and subdued.

Théoden had been silent throughout the ceremony.  Those who did not support him might have thought that he was only mourning because there was no longer a direct heir to the throne of Rohan.  Those who knew him better knew that he was unable to summon any words to justly describe his sorrow; they knew that he had lost not only his only son but also the strength and fortitude of spirit the young man possessed. 

Now the king stood before his son's tomb, staring vacantly at the carved stone door that had been shut with the dull slam of stone on stone.  It was so odd to him, that it was only a wall that separated him from Théodred's body, and yet he felt so far away from him. 

"Éowyn…" Éomer said quietly, inclining his head in Théoden's direction.  She nodded slightly, understanding what her brother had seen: Théoden, nearly collapsing from his grief.  Already was a fine trembling running through his shoulders to his hands.  Slipping away from Éomer's comforting grip, she made her way to the king's side, gently guiding him to his knees as he broke down.  Behind them, the crowd sniffled anew, and Éowyn looked pointedly at her brother.  He signaled to the other Riders who quietly began to dismiss the townspeople, telling them that Théoden needed to be left alone.  Obediently, they started to file away, casting long looks over their shoulders, trying to engrave in their minds what a king's grief looked like.  Soon only Théoden, Éomer, Éowyn, Gandalf and his companions remained.

After a few moments, Théoden stood, gently shrugging off Éowyn's helping hand. "Thank you, Éowyn.  But I wish to be left alone."

"Uncle," she started to protest, not wanting him to be by himself in such a state.

He held up one hand and she noticed that despite his sorrow, it was not shaking or trembling; it was firm, quietly commanding, and she gave way. "Very well."

She carefully lifted her skirt to avoid tripping over its edge and started to leave, pausing to exchange a long look with the wizard Gandalf, who smiled faintly and nodded nearly imperceptibly.  She saw him motion to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, glancing towards Meduseld.  Almost immediately, they turned to the king, bowed, and then started on the walk up the path to the king's hall.

As Éowyn passed her brother, he gently took her hand and went with her from the grassy mounds that were spotted with so many patches of small star-like flowers.  Evermind, she said in her mind again. It was such a beautiful flower, delicate in its pale magnificence, and yet such a terrible flower to see, to know that it will bloom over the grave of her cousin, her comrade, and her friend. "Théodred," she whispered in a final farewell. "Goodbye."

The Fallen [Théoden Grieves for his Son]  
(Old English)  
_Hé laered hine rídan  
And wealdan méce  
And standan fæst  
And féond ne forhtian.  
Nú hé sceal leornian  
Thæt hearde sóth:  
Hé raerede his cnapa  
Of cilde tó menn  
Thæt hé his death geséo  
  
Sé féond wæs simble mid heom.  
Sé féond ne recede ege._  
  
He taught him to ride,  
To wield a sword.  
To stand strong and  
Show his enemy no fear.  
Now he must learn  
The hard truth.  
That he had brought his boy  
From childhood.  
So that he might face his death  
Like a man.  
The enemy was always with them.  
The enemy did not care about fear.

            -Poem/Song courtesy of the Council of Elrond TTT Script

Author's Endnote: So that's the end!  Please review my story, and thanks to everyone who read and reviewed it.


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